Imbalance of Probability
by Maxton Holmes
Summary: Devastated by the loss of his brother, Mycroft Holmes finds his life turned completely upside-down when a face from Sherlock's past turns up with something that Mycroft never imagined that he would have to deal with.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first fanfiction ever, so go easy. I have had my friends fix any grammar mistakes.**

A cold bitter wind blew through the streets of London as its citizens rushed to their homes, seeking warmth and shelter from the December cold. Children complained as their parents shepherded them inside, promising cups of hot cocoa and threatening that 'Ole Saint North would not visit children whom did not listen to mummy or daddy. Distant music of all sorts could be heard from people's houses as they celebrated the Holidays. The Christmas bustle was the perfect disguise for a shadow that slipped through the alleyways unseen by the jolly folk. Whoever did turn an eye would look away almost immediately, thinking it was a drunkard stumbling this way and that; though in truth, this shadow walked too fast for a drunken oaf.

The shadow slipped its way past cars as it approached Pall Mall. On a closer inspection, the shadow was a woman hunched over herself, cradling something in her arms. She paused in an alleyway and frantically glanced around, before proceeding across the street towards a large estate surrounded by a 7 foot tall black iron fence. A security guard patrolled the perimeter, but didn't seem to notice the lone figure slip through the bars and into the back yard of the large house. Looking over her shoulder, the figure slipped the package she was holding into a back pack and set to climbing one of the bare-branched trees that stretched over the red tiles of the roof.

Before the figure could drop down, her package emitted a loud whimper which earned it a hasty 'shut up' and a light swat. These actions only seemed to make the 'package' louder and, giving up on shushing it, the figure dropped down onto the roof and, as quietly as possible, dashed to a skylight. It wasn't large enough for her to slip through unless she took off her back pack, so after wrenching the skylight open, she did exactly that; slowly lowering it through the window into what looked to be a library. The bag swayed side to side as its occupant writhed inside, making garbling noises as it did so. The figure hissed and dropped the bag, which landed with a dull thud that to the figure's worry, had silenced the occupant inside.

She took this chance to drop down herself, landing quietly. She searched through her pack and pulled out an infant of what looked to be no more than a few days old. The child seemed to have sustained no damage from the drop and though its silence was worrisome, it was warmly welcomed. Cradling the child in her arms, she tip-toed out of the library and into a large hallway littered with paintings. The figure walked briskly down the hall and up a grand staircase, which groaned in the silence. Reaching the top a clock chimed midnight, startling the child in her arms who wailed in fright. The figure swore harshly and smacked a hand on top of the child's mouth and muffling its cries, but a light flickered on down the hall and an eerie shadow was cast against the wall. Seeing the shadow and knowing whom it belonged to, the woman dashed down the stairs, keeping her hand firmly on the infant's mouth as it continued to wail.

Seeing as no matter where she went her position would be compromised by the crying child and finding herself in what appeared to be a small reception area, the figure paused, then briskly walked towards the nearest armchair and sat in it. She composed herself and waited, quietly hushing the child and awkwardly bouncing it on her knee in a soothing gesture. It quieted the infant down, but not completely.

Heavy footsteps could be heard, getting louder and louder as their owner neared the woman and the child seated in the chair. When a dark figure came into view on top the stairs the woman looked down, refusing to make eye contact. There was silence until the large figure flicked a switch on the wall and they were bathed in artificial light that blinded the infant, which cried out in displeasure. A strangled noise could be heard from the top of the stairs as the figure, who was dressed as if they had just attended a funeral, heard the unpleasant noise. Smiling, the woman looked up, shielding her eyes from the sudden light and clicking her tongue.

"Don't you think it's past your bed time, Mr. Holmes?"

The figure now identified as 'Mr. Holmes' blinked in confusion. He was a tall man, with neatly combed auburn hair and a set of piercing blue eyes. He stood as straight as a board and held himself with pride and dignity. Glancing about, his eyes eventually landed on the sobbing child in the woman's arms. Seeing the man's confused look, the woman stood and walked slowly over to the man, who took a quick step back in response when the child's wailing got louder as she advanced. The woman smiled warmly and tilted her head to the child.

"Sweet thing, isn't he? It is a pity that I can't keep it."

The man snarled in disgust. "A pity indeed, but I digress. Might I ask why you are here, Miss Adler? And with that?" The man glared at the infant.

"Oh, Mycroft. Just call me Irene. It's not like your dear baby brother is here." Irene hummed.

An unsettling blanket of tension fell upon the room at Irene's words, seeming to lace icy chains around Mycroft's legs and bolt him where he stood. He glared daggers at the woman as he clenched his fists until he could feel his nails digging a bit too deep into the palms of his hands.

"How da-" He began.

"As for the child? I am merely dropping him off." Irene cut in.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You will not be leaving that here. Now, GET. OUT." Mycroft turned away and began to march back up the stairs, which he seemed unaware of having just slowly finished descending.

Irene pouted. "And here I thought I had the best of intentions. I am in no position to care for a baby with people still out to kill me; it would compromise my safety, and the infant's also. Besides, the child deserves to be with family."

Mycroft halted and stood in place. "What did you say?" He said, his words barely above a whisper.

Irene smiled. "The child deserves to be with his family."

Mycroft turned around and stared for a moment before striding back towards Irene, who stood her ground as he leaned forward, their noses nearly touching.

"What are you implying, Miss Adler?" He hissed.

Irene, not liking her space invaded, walked back to the seat and placed the child onto it. The child seemed to take a liking to the chair and flailed about in it. Mycroft watched the child curiously.

"It's sad when a child hears their parents call them an accident, or a mistake. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Holmes?" Irene continued before Mycroft could respond. "Since this child is too young to understand me, I can tell you now Mr. Holmes that he was indeed an accident. He wasn't supposed to happen. I had your brother where I wanted him. It was, as they call it, a one night stand. I surely enjoyed it, though not the 9 months that followed."

The oxygen around Mycroft seemed to have high-tailed it out of the room, as he suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. He could only listen and swallow whatever bile crept up his throat as Irene continued.

"Oh don't worry! Sherlock never knew. It's quite a tragic tale this child has now, y'know… what with Sherlock's suicide."

Mycroft closed his eyes, not opening them until Irene spoke again.

"I can't take care of the child, nor do I even want it. Seeing as you, Mycroft dear, are all he has left of his family… well, you get the idea. You should know that he's three days old and no, I haven't named him. I couldn't care less what you do with him, as long as I don't have to deal with him anymore." Irene turned and began to walk towards the large elegant doors that she assumed were the exit to this place, while all Mycroft could do was watch.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes! I'm sure Sherlock won't mind you putting his son into an orphanage." Irene called.

Mycroft didn't know how long he stood in place, or how long he had been staring at the infant writhing about on the chair. But, eventually, he shook his head violently, turning on his heels and sprinting up the stairs. He didn't want to be here right now, he didn't want to be awake, he would much rather be asleep, or possibly dead and Mycroft struggled to claw his way out of the sea of confusion that he found himself adrift in. None of it made sense. None of it. Irene and Sherlock? No.

Mycroft was on the top of the stairs when a dull thud sounded from the hall and a high pitched cry followed. It rooted Mycroft, and his world tilted sharply as he suddenly felt the walls of his mind crumble. The cries of the child raked hot claws against his brain and Mycroft recoiled, leaning into the wall and shutting his eyes.

_"How's the diet?"_

_"Fine."_

The walls were on fire in his mind. The walls that made up the mind of Mycroft Holmes were ablaze.

_"I worry about him, constantly."_

Cracks broke out onto the polished marble floor as his mind split apart with the single piece of knowledge it was rejecting as more cries echoed around him.

_"Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock."_

Blue eyes snapped open and gazed down the hall. What was he doing? What kind of man was he? There is a child crying, but not just any child… his _nephew_ and he was just standing here, letting the cries of his brother's child ring out like a siren of despair.

Mycroft straightened himself and strode quickly down the stairs to where his nephew was on the floor screaming. The screams felt like an invisible barrier, pushing Mycroft back as he neared the infant and knelt to scoop him up. Mycroft held his nephew close, hushing him and getting no results. Seeing his options were limited, he decided to call an old friend. He shifted the baby in his arms in order to pull his mobile out of his pocket and then dialed frantically. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Mycroft patted the child's back in hopes of quieting him as he waited for the line to pick up.

"Hello?"

Mycroft released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Dr. Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

Silence.

That was all that could be heard if one were to ignore the ticking of a grandfather clock stood in the back of Mycroft Holmes' study. It's strange really; that silence isn't silent at all. It's a white noise. Mycroft enjoyed silence, but he found himself being grateful for the tick-tock that echoed off of the walls around him; he truly felt he would go mad if he were to stand in silence for too long. Another thing Mycroft found himself liking at that moment was standing. He, on almost any occasion, found himself usually fancying a chair, but not this time. He stood behind his desk, staring at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the cherry wood. Mycroft locked eyes with himself, feeling a deep loathing bubble in his gut which made him avert his eyes to focus on a piece of paper that lay on the desk. Mycroft no longer had a liking for himself. He no longer saw himself as a man, or a brother. It's a new feeling, but not too foreign to the politician. It felt a lot like guilt, only heavier, more suffocating, and with an edge of hatred. Many would call it self-loathing. Mycroft thought he hated himself more than anyone else did, but he found that was not the case. There was one other, and with a creak and a low click of a door opening, that very person walked through his office doors. He stood stoic and so rigid that if you were to poke him, he would snap in two. Grey eyes met with blue, and then the blue looked away in shame. Mycroft, for all his pride, could not look the doctor in the eye. Not since Sherlock's death. John Watson had every reason to hate Mycroft; it was his fault that his best friend was dead, after all.

John spoke first. "Where is he?"

The child. Mycroft felt his chest tighten as he looked to his PA, who sat in a large armchair holding his baby nephew and humming softly to the infant. Anthea had been called right after John and she had rushed over with no questions asked. She did not question why Mycroft had a screaming baby in his arms when she arrived. She merely took the child off of him and managed to perform a miracle; for she was able to quite the child's crying and on request, had items an infant would need with her. Even during Mycroft's silent hatred of himself, she still did not question the situation. He was forever grateful for her loyalty.

The moment John noticed the baby; he rushed to Anthea's side to look him over. After a moment or so, John looked back over to Mycroft.

"You said this child is Sherlock's?" The doctor asked.

Mycroft could only nod.

"And the mother?"

"Irene. It seems they had a 'one night stand'." Mycroft replied quietly.

John stood and ran a shaky hand through his hair. His eyes were wild with confusion as he tried to process the information given to him. He looked around as if lost and then, in his agitation, even went to the length of pacing the room. Mycroft watched the ex-soldier pace around his office for a good five minutes, until finally John stopped and glared at the politician.

"He'll need a home."

Mycroft was about to respond and ask that the doctor take him in when Anthea cut in, her voice demanding attention.

"I think the child should stay with Mr. Holmes."

"What!?" Both Mycroft and John asked in unison.

Anthea blinked at them both as if what she said should come as no shock.

John shook his head. "Anthea, you cannot be serious."

Anthea's eyes locked with John's. "I am."

"Anthea, I am in no position to care for an infant. My job will not allow it." Mycroft put in politely. He could have sworn he heard John mumbling about lack of priorities, but his wondering was soon put to a halt with John's scathing remark.

"How do you expect him to look after a child's well being when he sold out his own-"

"I would not finish that sentence Dr. Watson." Anthea cut in curtly.

John glared at Mycroft and the older man found himself unable to glare back, but merely hold eye contact as passive as possible. Mycroft knew that John blamed him for what had happened to Sherlock, god knows he had the right. Mycroft had made a grave mistake and it cost him his brother's life. The wound was still too raw for everyone in the room and John was acting out of grief. Mycroft kept his own grief tightly in check; he could grieve at another time, but right now his nephew demanded his attention.

"You have every right to hate me Dr. Watson, but I merely ask that you hate me at another time. I do believe there are more pressing matters to attend to." Mycroft spoke, shattering the icy coat of tension that had befallen the room.

John seemed to process this and gave a quick nod.

"Yes, y-you're right." John composed himself and jumped straight to the point. This was the John Watson Mycroft preferred. "What do we do? The child needs a home. I wish I could take him in myself, but I have my own child on the way. Mary and I would not be able manage such an odd age gap between two babies. What of your parents, Mycroft?"

Mycroft scoffed. "They are retired, Dr. Watson. They should not have to take care of a child at their age. Not to mention…" Mycroft trailed off.

"I'm sorry?" John asked. "If you have something to say Mycroft Holmes, then say it!" John hissed, having little patience for the Holmes' games. That is, if he was even playing one.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Not to mention that I'll never hear the end of it. What kind of son goes to their parents and drops a child on them? My parents would want me to raise the boy myself."

It was true. Mycroft knew that if he sent the child to his grandparents, they would nag the politician senseless to raise the boy himself rather than them. And let's not forget the guilt trips he would receive. Yes, going to his parents was out of the question.

Neither side was willing to mention putting the baby up for adoption, so Mycroft weighed his options carefully. His parents would not take the child and would insist on him being the caregiver. Putting the child in an orphanage was tempting, but cruel. Deep down if Mycroft was honest with himself; he would never be able to live with the guilt of having orphaned his brother's son. Not to mention that his parents would be even more displeased with him if he did take that option. John had Mary and their unborn child to take care of, so they were not an option either. And then there was his own job. How was he supposed to take care of a baby that was merely a few days old? His job demanded all of his attention and even if that could be changed, it could not be done immediately. Mycroft found himself at crossroads. He could take the child into his care and lay off work, or he could put the kid into an orphanage and live with the guilt. As much as Mycroft tried to look for a way out of taking the child as his own, there really was no other solution. The child had Holmes blood and could quite possibly share the intellectual gifts that Mycroft and Sherlock themselves have; putting him in an orphanage would be the highest cruelty Mycroft as a man could bestow on a child like the one resting in Anthea's arms.

Mycroft looked to his PA. She seemed to read the mental message that his eyes were relaying.

"I will do what I can sir. There are many government officials with children; the office should have no arguments." She said in a quiet voice, trying not to wake the child.

John seemed to have missed the mental message, for he soon spoke up. "Whoa. I'm sorry? What?"

Mycroft turned to John. "I am taking the child in. He will stay with me."

"B-but your job! Will you even have time to watch him?" John blinked.

"I will transfer my work here. My home will become my office, I can have superfluous rooms converted into conference rooms and I will work out of my personal study." Mycroft paused. "Here, this study here." He gestured to his surroundings.

"Anthea, you will have to take on more than you are paid for. It is quite alright if you do not wan-" Mycroft began.

"It's fine sir. I will do what I can." Anthea smiled.

Mycroft would have returned the smile if the situation were less stressful, but instead he merely nodded and once again found himself being forever grateful to his PA.

"I'll help as well." John piped up from where he stood, hands clenching and unclenching. He looked at both Anthea and Mycroft. "I… I still don't agree with this plan. But, seeing as it's what we seem to be doing, I will help. I don't like you Mycroft, but I am a grown man. I can put aside my differences for Sherlock's kid. Sherlock wouldn't want me feuding with you over his death as to who's to blame. If you need anything, just call. Myself and Mary will help as much as we can."

Looking from Anthea to John, Mycroft felt as if a book in his life had been closed. The decision was made.

Anthea stood and walked over to the politician and offered him the infant.

"Go on." She encouraged.

Mycroft shakily took the child from Anthea, trying his best not to wake the infant. He had to dig up memories of himself holding Sherlock as a baby in order to get it right, but the half-forgotten skill soon came back to him. It was painful, but it helped greatly now. Once the child was nestled in his arms comfortably, the infant's eyes blinked open to stare up at Mycroft. The eyes reminded the elder Holmes so much of his baby brother; he had Sherlock's eyes and Mycroft found himself smiling as the child yawned. Parent and ward stared at each other for a time, but the elder was dragged out of his thoughts by Anthea's voice.

"Well?" She asked with a tinge of humor.

"Pardon?" he asked.

Anthea smiled warmly and mischief shone in her eyes. "John asked you what you are going to name him?"

"Name him?" Mycroft blinked.

"Yeah! The kid needs a name!" John seemed to be teasing, but his humor was shaky. He was clearly trying to force the mood of the room away from the bitter feelings that were still permeating it.

Mycroft froze. That he did not think through. This baby had no name to go by and it was up to Mycroft to give him one. It surprisingly didn't take long for Mycroft to pick a name that was suitable. Looking to the child in his arms, who smiled curiously at him with an intelligence that only a Holmes could posses, Mycroft smiled.

"Maxton. I'll name him Maxton… Maxton Memoria Holmes."


End file.
